A Matter of Trust
by x-Goody2Shoes-x
Summary: One-Shot. George has always found it hard to trust. After Lennie's death, he reverts even further into himself. Will a young girl help him to trust again, as well as allowing herself, once more, to trust? Reviews make me happy, but please don't flame.


Written in an hour out of boredom, in an attempt to avoid revision, and inspired after watching the 1992 film _Of Mice and Men_, starring Gary Sinise as George. I don't own _Of Mice and Men_, but I do own my female character. If George seems OOC sorry. I tried to evolve him as much as possible, considering this happens a few months after Lennie's death.

**A Matter Of Trust.**

The man had not been there long - yet he looked as if he'd been there forever. Slumped against the trunk of an ancient withered oak, partially hidden amongst the tall golden wheat, his weathered face hidden in shade by the brim of his hat. His small dark eyes darted around everywhere - the only indication of his youth - for the man was not that old. But neither was he young. He simply sat there, tanned and strong, looking for all the world as if it was his right to sit there, looking as young and wild and free as you please. Lying in the dirt at his feet was a small pack - you couldn't see what was in it. The man made no move to unpack his things, or stretch out, or raise his face to the sun's warmth. He just sat there. Waiting. For what, nobody knew.

George Milton was not an idle man. He had worked hard all his God damned life, struggling and struggling in this deceptively natural beauty of a hell-hole to try and live a dream that wasn't going to come true. Along the way, he had lost someone - someone closer than a brother. A brother he had scolded, loved, hated, laughed with, sang with, dreamt with - and died with.

Now George just sat there. He had his life. He could find work. He could earn his wages, and go into town at the end of the month and spend the night in a cat-house, and he wouldn't have to worry about losing his job, or being on the run, with dogs and men with guns hunting him. He was free. But at a price. A bittersweet freedom that George never really wanted. Again, the image pressed unbidden to his mind - a man lying face down in the dust, a small, neat hole in the back of his head.

Growling with frustration, George grabbed his hat in his fist and tossed it away from him. It landed, sprawled pathetically a few feet away from him. George sighed and leant back against the trunk and closed his eyes. His tanned, prematurely wrinkled forehead furrowed with private sadness and grief, his short unruly dark hair curled with perspiration from the heat of the day. His clothes were weather-beaten, and stained, but they fitted him well- he did not look as sad, as desperate or defeated as others may have looked, but he looked like someone who had seen more of life's cruelty than its wonders.

*****

She hadn't always lived like this. Once, she had been free, and rich, and happy. She had lived life as she pleased, revelling in the beauty of nature and the freedom of youth, but now life had turned against her. And she was alone. Tired, sad, frightened and alone. But she was not defeated so easily. She was a survivor. Something lingered in the depths of her eyes, the stance of her body. The Great Depression would not win. She would. Picking up her pack, she trudged sadly, wearily, determinedly into the distance.

*****

George woke a few hours later, his neck cramped from lying in the awkward position, his head pounding and his stomach nauseous from sleeping for too long at the wrong time. Groaning quietly he clambered stiffly to his feet and stretched. The sun was still up, but evening was not far off. Waking now only reminded George of how hungry he was. He scooped up his pack and with a monotonous air that hinted of this having happened many times before, he piled his things out onto the dirt and began preparing what would be a scanty, unappetising meal. Beans. No ketchup. George smiled faintly to himself, before turning and heading into the distance towards where he knew there to be a small pond.

****

She saw him before he saw her. Tall, dark and muscled, he was bending over and examining the water before cupping some in his hands and drinking. He was older than her too, and posed a threat. She had learned to trust nobody. She crouched in the brush, her gun hot in her hand. She didn't want to be a cold-blooded killer. But it was a dog-eat-dog world, and she had no choice. He had money - and food, and that was all she needed to know. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her scarf around her mouth to muffle her voice before stepping out and pressing the gun to the back of his head. "Don't ya move a muscle."

*****

George froze, allowing the cool water to trickle through his fingers and splash back into the pond. He examined the reflection of the person in the water.

Shorter than he would have expected, with a muffled voice, his face was hidden by the shadow of his hat and scarf, and he was wrapped in a plaid jacket too thick for the warm summer evening. His hand was trembling slightly as he held the gun - good, he was nervous. Much easier to try and talk to.

"Sad state this country must be in, where a man can't even take a God-damned drink without riskin' his life," George said calmly. "Who are ya?"

"That's my business," came the hoarse sounding voice. "Who are ya?"

There was a pause, and then: "George Milton." The person didn't lower the gun.

"I'm sorry to have to do this, George Milton," he said quietly. "But I can't be takin' risks." But he had hesitated for too long. George immediately clasped the man's wrist in his left hand, pushing his hand upwards as the gunshot thundered loudly in the air. He twisted around, turning the man's wrist too, until George was on his feet facing the stranger and the man was struggling to tear his wrist from George's grip. Desperate, the man's right hand lashed out and connected to George's cheekbone, his surprisingly long nails raking a trench through his skin. George still didn't let go, even when his cheek stung with the pain and a warm trickle of blood dribbled slowly from the wound. George continued to twist the man's wrist until his hand shot open with pain, letting the gun fall from his grip. George immediately kicked the gun away, leaping backwards slightly as the man kicked out. George quickly shot out with his other fist, punching the man in the face, who let out a high-pitched cry of pain and staggered backwards, tripping over a tree root. He fell backwards, his legs in the air, as his hat tumbled from his head and his scarf unravelled. George's mouth dropped open with shock and he let go of the man at once.

He was looking at a girl.

She was a lot younger than he'd have dreamed, about sixteen, maybe seventeen, with shoulder length dark blonde hair and pale blue eyes - one of them was now red and shiny, after his punch. She had a thin, angular face, tanned from hours spent in the sun. A long-ish nose, and rounded lips, slightly pursed with pain. She was dressed in a plaid shirt, with a white vest underneath, and the blue canvas trousers worn by ranch-hands. He now understood the necessity of her plaid jacket - he could see the faint curve of her breasts through her shirt. George looked at her face, feeling a mixture of guilt and fury.

"Jest what the hell do ya think ya were doin'?" He growled, refusing to acknowledge the guilt in his stomach whenever he saw the mark on her eye.

The girl gazed resentfully up at him. "Protectin' myself," she muttered. Her voice, without the scarf muffling it, was distinctly feminine, with a ranch-hand accent. George stared incredulously at her.

"Protectin' yourself, huh?" He mumbled. "From what? Ain't nobody else around." The girl, now rubbing her bruised wrist, shot him a withering glare.

"I don' trust nobody." She said. She slowly hauled herself to her feet, wincing, and made to limp past him, but her ankle buckled under the strain and she fell forward. George automatically grasped her shoulders to stop her falling, although the look on his face said he resented her presence.

"Look, ma'am, with all due respect, you can't just go round shootin' everybody you damn well please! There's a lil' thing called the law; like it or not, ya gotta abide it! I ain't done ya no harm, anyways," he added, looking down into her face. She looked up at him, her eyes burning with resentment and her mouth firmly open to argue, but then the strength seemed to go out of her and she broke his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "Will ya let me go?" George had forgotten he was still holding her upright.

"Can ya leg hold ya weight?" he asked gruffly. She nodded, but as soon as he loosened his grip, she wobbled dangerously, and he quickly wrapped his arms around her again.

"I didn' think so." he commented. "Right, come with me. Better see what we can do with that eye of your's as well."

"Excuse me," she said indignantly. "Ya seem to have forgotten - it was your God-damn fault! Ya punched me!" George raised an eyebrow, and inclined his head towards the gun. The girl blushed slightly, but said nothing, glaring at him. George shifted his weight slightly from foot to foot, before saying exasperatedly:

"Well, are ya gonna let me help ya, or are ya gonna wander round with a twisted ankle and a busted up eye?" The girl said nothing for a while, simply looking at him, before sighing and slumping in his arms. George raised his eyebrows but lifted her off the ground slightly and carried her lightly to the tree. He lay her awkwardly on the ground before turning and walking back to the pond. Before he did anything, he was going to fetch that gun.

*****

"So, how'd a kid like yourself end up wanderin' around with a gun?" George asked, as he gently but firmly straightened her ankle out. She winced, but otherwise showed no signs of pain, slightly impressing George.

"My da' owned a ranch," she said finally. "I ain't a kid," she added fiercely, as if in an afterthought.

"How old are ya?"

"Seventeen." _Thought so_, George mused.

"Where was ya dad's ranch?"

"Weed." George's stomach immediately clenched with fresh memories, but he struggled to ignore it.

"You're a while away from Weed," he pointed out. She glared at him again.

"I _know_." She said. "I ain't stupid. I ran away."

"Why?"

"None of your God-damn business. Why do ya care, anyways?"

George shrugged. "Well, ya seem affected by somethin' - since ya turned up and decided to assault me with a gun, thought I'd make it ma business to figure it out."

"Well, don't." She said. She scraped the inside of her tin with a fork. "Don't ya have any more of this stuff?"

"Used up the spare on ya - need the rest for myself. A thank ya wouldn' go amiss either."

"Thank ya."

"You're welcome. Now, ya better hope that leg of your's is fixed by tomorrow, 'cos I'm getting' the hell outta here."

"Where ya goin'?"

"What's it to ya?"

"Nothin'. Thought I'd make it ma business to know," she smirked, deliberately using his words from before. George glared at her.

"Jest what the hell is your problem, miss? I've done nothin' but be nice to you, and you've done nothin' but God-damn throw it back at me!" The girl winced, and dropped her eyes to the floor. "Sure ya da didn't jest kick ya off that ranch, 'cos he was sick of ya?" George asked meanly. The girl said nothing, and didn't look at him. George threw his eyes up to heaven as, still cross, he began to bandage her ankle.

A small silence passed before she asked meekly "What ya doin', George?" it was the first time she had used his name since the gun incident.

"Bandagin' ya ankle. It should hold up till ya get to town an' see a doctor."

"Thanks... For everythin'." George looked at her. She looked sad, her blue eyes gleaming with the same emotion that had plagued him for months; grief. Silence passed. George continued to stare at her as she gazed into the distance, lost in memories. She began to speak again, her voice barely a whisper.

"My da' was a rich man. Owned 20 acres of lan', and had twelve men workin' for him. Owned six horses, five dogs and a coop full of chickens. I was an only child - destined to get the whole lot. Da taught me all the stuff I'd need to know to work on a ranch - how to grow stuff, ride a horse, train a dog, use a gun. I was ready. Used to help out all the time - it was like it was already mine." She blinked sadly, and lowered her gaze. George didn't ask how he had gained her trust. He just waited for her to continue.

"Da wasn' well. He lost his legs in one of the machines, and got infected by somethin'. He was dyin'. So he brought me and my uncle into the room to talk about his Will. Since ma uncle already owned lan', my da' let slip how everythin' was goin' to me. My uncle would gain possession of the lan' only if I died before my da'." Her eyelashes were spiky with suppressed tears, and her voice shook as she continued:

"It happened that night." She whispered. "Dogs woke me up in the night. Were howlin' and whining' like nothin' on Earth, they were. It was then that I smelt it -" She finally looked directly at George - her watery, blue gaze found his dry, unblinking, unemotional, brown one. "Fire. Everywhere. I got up straight away, grabbed the clothes at the foot of my bed, and ran to my da's room. He knew what was goin' on. Chucked his hat, gun an' scarf at me," she gestured to the items by the tree. "An' told me to get the hell outta there. So I did. Ran to my room and jumped outta the window. Hurt like hell when I landed, but I was alive." She took a deep breath. "Can't say the same for everyone else though. Last I heard, entire place was torched to the ground. No survivors." She laughed bitterly. "Except for good ole' Uncle, of course. Kept wanderin' round in a daze, talking about tragedy and God's will - pah!" She spat into the fire. George didn't realise until them that he'd been holding his breath.

"So now I'm on my own," she continued. "No family, no home, no money - and I don' trust nobody. Yeah. That's it." She sighed. "Thanks for the food, and helping' me with my injuries and stuff, George. I promise I'll be outta your hair by tomorrow."

"Oh, no ya won'." George muttered gruffly. Emotion embarrassed him somewhat. "That ankle ain't gonna be right by tomorrow. I can tell - my friend hurt his ankle once, and he -" But George's expression became blank and he didn't finish the sentence. The girl looked at him sympathetically, and thankfully. Because she knew he was inviting her to stick with him, and she knew she was going to accept.

"Ya can trust me," she said softly.

George looked at her. "Can I?" he asked honestly.

She nodded. "I trust you." She stuck out her hand for him to shake. "My name's Clara."

******

Night had fallen. The air was full of the scent of pine. The sky, which stretched above the hills for as far as the eye could see, had turned a deep, dusky indigo. Thousands of stars studded the sky, twinkling like diamonds in a coal mine, and a cold, pearly full moon shone sleepily down at a strange sight.

A small fire crackled merrily before the shadowy images of two people; one, a man, neither old nor young, who was damaged with memories and uncertain about his future: in his arms, a young girl, lost, plagued with an old fear and uncertain about her future. Both were sleeping - and both faces, whereas before showed grief, and confusion, and weariness, now were empty but for small smiles and a rare sense of content and peace.

She had always wanted a brother.

**The End.**

Reviews make me happy. =) So go on, make my day! Oh, and btw, I couldn't resist her name! Hee-hee! Make the connection?


End file.
